“I’m pretty upset that today was the first time I’ve had a proper Maine lobster.” This was the text I sent my parents after lunch in Kennebunkport, ME two weekends ago. Yes I know, #firstworldproblems indeed. But I was drunk off of sweet corn, clam chowder, and freshly-caught lobster, so I felt some guilt tripping was warranted.
It was a lunch some twenty odd years in the making. Maine is a surprisingly far away place, even when you start on the East Coast. My lack of childhood lobster trips made more sense after our roughly six hour drive through NY, CT, MA, and ME. As with most people our age, Hillary and I were making this trip for a wedding. I’d like to believe that only L-O-V-E could have delivered me to this meal.
If that love story is true, then I have to thank Hillary’s family friends for playing matchmaker. They brought us to the Langsford Road Lobster and Fish House, a modest seafood shack hidden from the more touristy parts of Kennebunkport. We sat outside at wooden picnic tables, sipping on beers while our soft shell lobsters steamed away (RIP).
At last, our lobsters arrived in a burst of blue, red, green, and yellow. The shells cracked loudly and each bite was better than the last. The years of waiting for my first “proper Maine lobster” had seemingly intensified the colors, sounds, and tastes. I’m not exaggerating when I say that eating this lobster was pure bliss. Ultimately, I had to admit to my parents later that day: “I couldn’t have appreciated a lobster like that when I was little.”